Archive
03/05/09 - (1)
Mules
This unavoidable morning (Another excruciatingly taxing workaday early-a.m.), You leave your high-rise apartment, loaded down, to foundering.
You're a fucking mule toting saddlebags, over both shoulders (Your bulging attaché on the right, Gym bag, brimming with smelly clothes, on the left),
No damn different than one of those beasts of burden That thread-and-needle the Grand Canyon's tightrope paths, Stitched those precipitous zigzagging switchbacks —
Those plodding nags that served Native Americans, Now struggling under today's beefy tourists, without complaint, Unlike you, still grousing at shit's gristmill, at sixty-two,
Can't call it quits, just disappear into retirement's golden pasture, Since you, lacking a pension or winning Lotto ticket, Wouldn't be able to avoid the Alpo/glue factory,
Your suffering the common beast of burden's daily humiliations Seems to be the exorbitant price you have to pay For living in your enormously affordable thirteenth-floor studio —
Up and down, down and up the canyon's breathtaking depths — Especially for the last fourteen months, anyway, While 1010 Towers's sole elevator has been "OUT FOR SERVICE,"
Forcing you and all the rest of the gracelessly aging residents To clip-clop the steep steps of the stairwells — An obnoxiously braying train of hoofing and puffing mules.
03/05/09 - (1)
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